Nothing Else Matters
by Tomolonis
Summary: Just a short drabble of Dean finally saying yes to Alastair in Hell. May continue, may not. Either way, it's a short drabble of Dean in hell. M warning for violence, language, and themes.


Son of a fucking bitch, it hurt. It hurt like – well, like hell. There was no more pretending, no more lying to himself. Dean's entire body was burning, his flesh ripping itself apart on hooks and wires, the exertion only earning him more violent wounds from the man in front of him. Alastair's methods were always so particular – he was slow, precise – the speed of his torture ensuring that he touched absolutely every inch of flesh. The hunter's eyes were closed, shut only so that he would not have to look into the damned demon's eyes – which were always taunting him, as he asked, over and over, if Dean was finally done being tortured. And over and over, Dean told him no. He would say no again, he knew, without opening his eyes. "No," Dean breathed the word, hoping that Alastair's routine question meant the pain would stop for the day. In all honesty, he wasn't sure how much more of it he could take. It wasn't like the pain ever really stopped – more that the torture stopped, and his body was left in a state of aching agony until Alastair came back to heal him and start all over. Dean was humming, trying to ignore it, trying to imagine being somewhere else, anywhere but here –

_So close, no matter how far –_

"Open your eyes, Dean." A jolt of electricity – now that hadn't been used in a long time – and his eyes sprung open, pained breaths hissing through his bloody teeth. The taste of blood was not unfamiliar, but this particular day proved to surpass all others in the quantity of the liquid pooling in the hunter's mouth.

_Couldn't be much more from the heart –_

"Stop." It was so hard to get the words out, because he felt like such a fucking failure. The pain, the lack of sleep – god, it had been fucking weeks since Alastair had let him shut his eyes for more than a minute – the blood, the fire, the tears, the taunting, the hallucinations –

Every single thing was eating away at him, driving him insane, and he knew there was a way to stop it. But he couldn't – he couldn't do it. There was no way, no fucking way, he would ever give in. "Stop," he croaked again, just as Alastair grabbed his face, slicing into his ear, dragging the blade down what was left of his burned neck.

"I'm sorry, you'll have to come again. I didn't quite get that."

More blood, and it was overflowing, though Dean tried so fucking hard to keep it in his mouth, to swallow it down, to take the pain like a man – like his father. "Son of a bitch," he rasped, the blood pooled in his mouth and throat spattering onto Alastair's face as he spoke. Alastair made no move to wipe it, but simply held Dean's face, cradling it even, before driving another blade down into his arm, slicing it all the way through to the elbow. The demon watched as Dean, who was trying so goddamned hard to fight it, let out a scream, the sound like a choked gargle from the amount of damage already done.

"Stop," Dean was begging, he knew. This is what he'd become – nothing more than a small, insignificant man, good for nothing, deserving of nothing. And no one would ever come for him. It had been thirty years, and his family had left him to rot, had not even tried to help. So here he was, being electrocuted, again, and again, and again, until finally he was burning alive, and he couldn't take it anymore.

"Please," and his eyes were watering, dried blood coated onto his face so thick that it looked to be his natural skin color. "I can't –," his voice cut off, breaking as he paused to vomit, blood and acid spilling onto the floor right in front of Alastair's shoes.

A razor so close, caressing the mutilated flesh that made up his facial features. Dean told himself to say no, just like he always did. He told himself to spit in the demon's face and laugh, told himself, that he has to be better than this, that he has to keep fighting for himself, for Sammy, for dad –

"Sign me up."

Alastair held out the blade – would not hand it to him. Dammit, dammit, fucking damn it all – fuck.

Dean's fingers wrapped around the razor, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turned white – and Alastair – he just smiled, as Dean's body healed itself, laughing, patting Dean on the back, bringing him to a table of tools – in front of another tormented soul. "What are you waiting for, Dean?" And the body on the rack – the body, he _knew _her – and – fuck he couldn't do this. Everything, every part of his body was shaking, his fingers around the blade now gripping so tight that he was bleeding. But Alastair just laughed, urging him forward, reminders of pain shooting through his mind, reminding him that if he did not do this, he would be right back where he was – and no one would save him, just like Alastair said. So why should it be his responsibility to save anyone? "Dean," and he was so close to Bella's face that he could feel her breath, Alastair having moved him without his notice. "Let's get started."

Dean was humming, the razor opening, his fingers uncurling as he stepped forward –

_Forever trusting who we are, _

He plunged the blade down, into the weeping bitch's flesh – and the scream echoed, the flesh tearing, ripping, pulling apart –

_And nothing else matters._

* * *

Lyric credit to Metallica; Nothing Else Matters.


End file.
